only thirty-one years old.
The article had given no explanation for his decision, but that hadn't stopped Sam, who had immediately invented his own. 'The man's bored, Susannah. He's only thirty-one. He wants a challenge. SysVal is going to be just what he needs.'
Try as she might, she could find no evidence in the article to support Sam's conclusion. The article told the facts about Blaine's life but nothing about the man himself.
She caught his arm as they approached the front steps of the house. 'Sam, this is awful. We have to call first.'
'And give him an opportunity to brush us off? Not a chance. Besides, you don't think we can just ring up information and get Mitchell Blaine's private phone number, do you? It was hard enough for you to find out where he lived.'
She didn't want to think about how embarrassed she had been to rouse one of FBT's Boston executives out of bed at six-thirty in the morning with a preposterous story about needing Blaine's address for her father's social calendar. 'We can't just show up on his doorstep,' she insisted. 'It simply isn't done.'
Sam jabbed the door bell. 'If you're afraid you'll get kicked off the Social Register, it's too late. Our little escapade on your wedding day took care of that.'
'Damn it, Sam!'
'Wow. Miss Goody-Goody is swearing. She's going to have to sit in the corner.' He punched the door bell a second time.
He was being unbearably nasty, but she understood him well enough to suspect he was merely trying to distract her from the fact that he knew she was right.
'What are you going to say to him? How are you going to explain our presence?'
'I'm not. You tell him who you are and get us in the door. After that, I'll do all the talking.'
That was what she had been afraid of.
He rang the bell several more times, but nothing happened. 'No one's here, Sam. Let's forget-'
'Just keep ringing, damn it!' He disappeared around the side of the house.
She violated every rule of etiquette she had ever learned by ringing two more times. Just as she was turning away, Sam reappeared. 'There's a television on in the rear of the house. Let's go.'
'No, Sam! It might be the maid.'
'He's here. I know it.'
She stumbled over a sprinkler head as he dragged her through a hedge of yews. A shaded flagstone patio lay directly in front of them. As they stepped up on it, a security alarm went off.
'We're going to get arrested!'
'Not until we've seen Blaine.' Without releasing his grip on her, Sam steered her across the patio to the back door and began to pound it with his fist.
'Hey, Blaine!' he shouted. 'I know you're in there! I want to talk to you. I've got Susannah Faulconer here. FBT Faulconer. Joel Faulconer's daughter. She doesn't like being left on the goddamn doorstep. Let us in.'
'Shhhh!' she hissed. 'Be quiet! Will you be quiet!' She imagined Blaine huddled inside his house in terror while he waited for the police to rescue him from the madman who was storming his house. 'He's going to think we're here to murder him!'
No sooner had the words left her mouth than one of the patio doors slid open and they had their first sight of their quarry.
In those initial few seconds, Susannah came to the rapid conclusion that Mitchell Blaine probably didn't care whether he was about to be murdered or not. As Boston's young high-tech marketing whiz stumbled out onto the patio, she realized that he was too drunk to care much about anything.
Even drunk, he was formidable. She had been around the exclusive brotherhood of powerful corporate men all her life, and although Blaine was only thirty-one and obviously not at his best, she knew at once that he was a member in good standing. But if she had been pressed to define exactly why she was so certain, she would have had difficulty. Members of the brotherhood reveled in their power too much to drink to the point of oblivion, as Blaine had done. And although he was wearing the proper uniform-a custom-tailored white dress shirt and well-cut gray trousers-the garments looked as if they had been slept in.
His straight, sandy hair was conservatively cut by a barber who had been well-trained to meet the precise requirements of the brotherhood. But the regulatory side part was uneven, and instead of being combed neatly back from his forehead, the hair at the front tumbled forward in a manner acceptable only after a set of tennis.
His body wasn't quite right, either. Although he was imposingly tall, his build was a bit too muscular for a member of the corporate elite and his abdomen a little too taut. But the directness in those wide-spaced, light blue eyes was familiar, as well as the chilling contempt in his blunt, slightly irregular features.
She caught her breath as Blaine came toward Sam. 'Get the hell off my property.'
Sam formed the peace sign, a gesture that would have amused Susannah if she hadn't been so appalled at the rudeness of their intrusion. 'We just want to talk,' Sam said, refusing to back off by so much as an inch. 'We've come a long way to talk to you.'
'I don't care how far you've come. You're trespassing, and I want you out of here!' Blaine took an uneven step forward.
Sam was starting to get angry, managing by some incredible sleight-of-mind to turn himself into the wronged party. 'Listen. We've busted our asses finding you, and the least you can do is hear us out.'
'The least I can do is kick you out of here.'
Gathering her nerve, Susannah pushed herself between Sam and the formidable Mr. Blaine. 'Let's go inside and I'll fix you a cup of coffee, Mr. Blaine. You look like you could use it.'
'I don't want any coffee,' he said with angry precision. 'I want another drink.'
'All right,' she replied stubbornly. 'I'll fix you some coffee to go along with your drink.'
Fortunately, the relentless whine of the security alarm had begun to bother him even more than their presence. He turned back toward the house, and at that moment she knew why she had recognized him as one of the elite brotherhood of the powerful. Even though he was staggeringly drunk, he had been able to dismiss them with cruel accuracy as persons of no consequence to him.
He moved with surprising grace for a man in his condition, although he did manage to stub the toe of his expensive black leather wing tips on the step. Sam refused to wait for an invitation that he knew wouldn't be forthcoming. Grabbing Susannah, he pulled her through the patio door after him.
They walked into a family room complete with timbered ceiling and a soaring Old English fireplace that looked large enough to roast an ox. The green and red plaid design in the carpet held indentations showing that couches and tables had been in place quite recently, but many of the items themselves were missing. The few pieces of furniture that remained were obviously expensive, but dark and heavy.
When Blaine finally realized they had followed him, he looked annoyed, but not alarmed. She spotted the glass that he had been drinking from. Ignoring her conscience, she snatched it up and handed it to him. While Sam studied their surroundings, she adopted the deferential manner of one of Joel Faulconer's secretaries and managed to convince Blaine to deactivate the alarm and call off his security company.
When the house was finally quiet, Sam spoke. 'I've got a proposition for you, Blaine…'
She went into the kitchen to make coffee. While she was waiting for the water to boil, she spotted a nursery school calendar hanging crookedly by a magnetic clip on the side of the refrigerator along with a collection of crayoned art work. Children had obviously occupied this house until fairly recently, but where were they now?
As she returned to the family room with the coffee, she saw that Blaine had refreshed his glass with three fingers of something that looked like straight scotch. Sam was waving a can of Coke in the air and talking, talking, talking. '… is the most incredible, extraordinary machine you've ever seen. Simple, elegant-it'll blow you away.'
Blaine turned as he spotted Susannah. 'So you're Joel Faulconer's daughter?' His consonants were slightly blurred at the edges.
'Yes, I am.'
'He's a son of a bitch.'
She shrugged noncommittally and held out a coffee mug, which he ignored. Taking a mug for herself, she sat in one of the remaining chairs. Something poked her in the hip. As Sam resumed speaking, she reached behind her and
